Finding Magic
by Amatista
Summary: While imprisoned in Wonderland, Jefferson was assigned an apprentice, one forced to bear witness to his gradual descent into madness. After regaining their memories in modern-day Storybrooke, Jefferson seeks her help yet again in his quest to be reunited with his daughter, but ultimately discovers that sometimes, magic has a way of finding you instead...
1. Prologue: Awakened

_~Storybrooke~_

Her hands were shaking uncontrollably upon the desk, trembling breaths passing through her parted lips as the mental images continued to wash hotly over her.

Oh…my God…

It had started as nothing more than a brief glimpse, something she'd dismissed as a mere fanciful thought as it faded quickly from her mind. But then came another image, followed by another. And then another. Another still. It didn't take long for her to realize that these were not simply random thoughts invading her psyche: they were full-blown _memories_. Memories of a life she'd long-since forgotten, but now rushing back to her with such unrelenting force that she could hardly remember how to breathe.

No, her mind whispered. No…

There was no stopping them. Not the images; not the pain; not the incessant burn that was gradually rising within her chest and consuming all of her senses.

I…remember.

And then her eyes glanced down at the file in front of her, and she felt her throat seize up. Her palms flattened against the desk's smooth surface. Scanning the notes scrawled in her penmanship, she took in the details she'd written about one of her most perplexing medical cases; the man who was in her office at least twice a week, if not more often seeking her assistance. A man she could never seem to refuse whenever he asked for her help.

 **HARRIS, JEFFERSON,** the label on the file read.

Not my patient, she thought in shock. He's not my patient. Dr. Lydia Warner felt the sting of tears behind her eyes as her heart clenched painfully. I remember…

 _Off with his head!_

Hearing the loud slice in her mind, she stood abruptly, knocking her chair to the floor with a loud thud. Luckily, she was the last person left at the clinic, so the noise went completely unnoticed. Releasing a shuddering breath, her vision momentarily blurred before two tears slipped down her cheeks.

I remember _everything_ …

She choked on a gasp when her cell phone vibrated loudly beside her hand, her heart automatically pounding beneath her chest. Picking up the device with a shaking hand, she glanced at the display screen and felt a sense of dread fill her stomach when she recognized the number. She swallowed, trying to take a steadying breath. It wasn't unexpected, but…

Accepting the call, she brought the phone to her ear and breathlessly wheezed out, "Jefferson—"

"You remember," he immediately responded, though she didn't miss the slight quake in his deep voice. A voice she knew all too well. "Don't you?"

So she wasn't the only one. Closing her eyes, she conjured the will to whisper, "Yes."

 _TBC..._


	2. A Fate Worse Than Death

_**~Wonderland, 30 years ago~**_

 _She didn't know how long she'd been down in the dungeon. Days? Weeks, perhaps? Hard to say without being able to see sunlight through a window, but there were none in the stone walls surrounding her. It mattered not, though. Clara knew she would never leave. No; the Queen of Hearts could have easily beheaded her and put her out of her misery, but instead she'd locked her away in the dungeon. A place for those confined to darkness and condemned to be forgotten by the rest of the world. To never see daylight, nor know the company of others ever again. Even now, the steady_ drip, drip _of nearby water was interrupted by the distant wails and pitiful cries of other prisoners as they called out for their friends, their loved ones, their families…She felt her heart break, listening as their echoing cries continued to haunt her ears. There was no comforting any of them._

 _She tightened her arms around herself. This was her punishment; this was the price she paid for her role in the failed revolt against their merciless monarch._

 _The throw of the heavy bolt caused Clara to snap her head up, and the sudden illumination from two burning torches caused her to squint and shield her eyes. As her vision adjusted, she became aware of the two guards pulling open the barred door. She sighed, thinking they'd come to provide her with her measly rations for the evening, but when they both entered the cell, she cowered against the far wall._

" _Come along, girl," the closest guard said, reaching out to grasp her arm, "it's time."_

 _Time? She thought as both guards hoisted her to her feet. Time for what? Time for pain? Time for death? But her silent queries went unanswered as they dragged her through the long stretch of corridor, their torches casting an orange glow upon the stone walls flanking either side of them as they navigated their way through the darkness. At times, her eyes flicked to the shadows they created on the walls, catching glimpses of the occasional prisoner peering through the barred doors. Some cried out as they passed by, but their words gradually faded as they continued on, and she released a shuddering breath. This was the first time she'd ever been removed from her cell since her captivity began, and with the growing sense of dread spreading from the pit of her stomach, she could only assume the worst was about to come. Tears fell from her eyes, so warm against her chilled skin._

 _My fate, her mind whispered in defeat._

 _Turning a corner, they began ascending the narrow steps of a stone staircase, and when they reached a hallway at the top, her brow automatically furrowed in confusion. At the end of the hall, she thought she detected the faintest of hint of illumination cutting through the dark, not from torches, but…from a room. She closed her eyes, thinking it must have been her imagination, but when she opened them again, the light remained. Not a trick. And it was then that she made out the outline of someone standing near the doorway as they approached._

" _Clara Forsythe," a gasp caught in her throat, recognizing the unmistakable voice of the Knave of Hearts. "For the crime of high treason against the crown, Her Royal Majesty, the Queen of Hearts, has finally determined a suitable punishment for you. And I think you'll agree: she has been quite merciful in her decision this time."_

 _Merciful, she mentally snorted. Who knew what her definition of_ merciful _could possibly entail? Squinting against the light, she looked up at the queen's devoted orator, and as his features came into focus, she was reminded of how much she despised that look of perpetual smugness on his face. Forcing her lips to move, it took a couple of tries before she finally found her voice. "And what…am I to do?"_

 _She didn't miss the way the corner of his mouth ticked upward in a slight smirk. "An opportunity has suddenly arisen," he turned and entered the room, "that will allow you to employ the skills that warranted your arrest in the first place."_

 _Warning flared within her heart, and it was then that she detected the faint sound of weeping coming from within the room. She swallowed, a feeling of uneasiness enveloping her as the guards led her in after the Knave…_

" _My body! Give me back my body; I need my body! Please!"_

 _Clara's eyes went wide, gaping in horror at the sight before her. The screams hadn't come from her, or the Knave, or the guards at her sides…but from the severed head the Knave was holding up for her to see._

" _Ahhh! Who are you?" It screamed again. "What do you want?"_

 _She gasped harshly, her knees nearly giving out beneath her, but the guards held fast. Despite being detached from his body, that head—that man's head—was very much_ alive! _Staring at her with wild blue eyes that seemed so full of terror and anguish that she found it impossible to look away._

" _Get away!" He continued to shout. "Get away from me!"_

 _She wanted to scream, but couldn't. Beheaded. This man had been beheaded, and yet he still lived. Fates! Her mind hissed, feeling the hot sting of tears behind her eyes once more. What dark magic is this?_

" _Miss Forsythe," the Knave spoke, "welcome to your new quarters for the duration of your sentence."_

" _Get away," the man demanded again, though she didn't miss the way his voice cracked. "Just give me back my body. Please…" And then he closed his eyes as he succumbed to weak sobs._

 _She drew in a quiet, trembling breath. It was such a gut-wrenching display of sorrow that Clara felt two tears slip from her own eyes. For a moment, she forgot about her horror, forgot about the Knave's words regarding her sentence…"Why," it barely came out a whisper, "is he still alive?"_

" _So that he may serve out his own punishment."_

 _She snapped her head up to him, stunned. "And what exactly was his crime?"_

" _This intruder was apprehended following a theft from the queen's vault, and she finds this penalty to be more fitting than death."_

 _Gawking in disgust, she slowly shook her head. "She is barbaric—"_

 _Without warning, the Knave used his free hand to slap her hard across the face. Clara's head jerked to one side, holding her breath against the stinging pain in her cheek. It hurt, but she forced herself not to make a sound._

" _It is not in your best interests to insult our glorious queen," the Knave warned, "unless you'd prefer to have your tongue cut out in retaliation."_

 _Releasing a cough, she drew in a long breath and exhaled heavily._

" _He claims to have come to Wonderland by means of a magical hat," the Knave continued, and Clara lifted her eyes to look at him once more, "and if he ever wishes to leave, he is to replicate that very hat in order to transport himself out of here." It was then that she noticed the long stone table behind him, and the headless body lying upon it. "Until he does," he set the head on the table next to the body, giving it a patronizing pat, "he's to remain here."_

" _Get it to work," the man's head rasped, "but there's no magic. No magic…"_

" _And that," he pointed a finger at her, "is where you come in, my dear. Since he will need his body back in order to complete his task, it will be up to you to sew his head back into place."_

 _Her stomach plummeted to the floor. "What…?"_

" _Come now, you are trained in the healing arts, so this should be well within your skill range."_

" _I…" Her mind was reeling from his proclamation, and as her eyes darted around the room, they widened when she remembered his earlier words._ Welcome to your new quarters… _"You…s-said I am to stay here? Even after my task is done?" A slight panic welled within her chest. "W—why?"_

 _Once again, he seemed to smirk. "The queen always makes sure that her punishments are well-understood by her prisoners, and she is particularly interested in making sure both of you truly understand the consequences of your actions against her." He turned back to the table. "As such, your abilities will not be limited to this one instance."_

 _Numb. She went completely numb as comprehension dawned on her, and as the guards finally released her, her arms flopped uselessly at her sides. Not limited…to this one instance…_

 _When the Knave turned back to her, she saw that he was holding a spool of thread in his hand. "You have all the materials you'll need here. Now," he held it out to her, "put him back together, girl; that is your task."_

 _No, she wordlessly shook her head. No… "Please," she wheezed, her eyes pleading as she looked up at him, "don't make me do this."_

 _He arched an eyebrow, and then he was kneeling before her, his face void of any emotion. "This is not a negotiation, Miss Forsythe; this is a direct command from the queen. You_ will _perform the task that is appointed to you, or your refusal will result in both your hands being cut off at the wrists." As her jaw dropped, he grinned mockingly, holding up the spool before her. "Do I make myself perfectly clear?"_

 _Paralyzed with disbelief, Clara could only stare at him mutely. Stay…here. Forevermore to this…this…existence? She wanted to cry, wanted to scream, wanted to lash out at him in any possible way, but…Tears slipped silently down her cheeks, ultimately resigned to her fate as she reached out to accept the spool from him._

 _There was nothing more on the matter. Without another word, the Knave and the guards left room—the cell, not just a room—slamming the barred door shut behind them with an icy_ chink _. Clara was left alone, frozen to her spot on the cold floor._

 _No, not alone. Not ever again. For upon that stone table was the lifeless body of a man, and right next to his shoulder was his severed head, staring back at her with eyes that were very much alive and aware of his surroundings. Waiting for her to fulfill her gruesome duty to re-attach him to his body._

" _Get it to work," he repeated, tears forming in his eyes again. "I have to get it to work..."_

 _Clutching that spool of soft thread to her chest, Clara let her head fall into her other hand as she began to cry._


	3. Stitches in Time

_A/N: I did change the title of the previous chapter, just because it made more sense with this one. Cheers!_

* * *

 _ **~Storybrooke~**_

Even though she'd already put the car in park, Lydia couldn't bring herself to relinquish her vice-like grip on the steering wheel. Had it still been daylight outside, she was sure her knuckles would have been white from the pressure.

Breathe, she kept repeating to herself. Just breathe.

Turning to look out her window, she felt her stomach sink at the imposing sight of the dark mansion she was parked out in front of. Yes, a mansion; one of the few mansions standing in all of Storybrooke, and this one was home to none other than Jefferson himself.

She swallowed thickly. I shouldn't be here, she told herself. No matter how much he'd insisted on the phone earlier, she never should have agreed to come over.

But then a voice seemed to whisper to her from out of nowhere: _Who else do you have?_

Closing her eyes, she released a long slow breath. It took a while, but her hands finally began to relax on the wheel, and she reached down to switch off the ignition at last. Stepping out of her car, Lydia lingered beside it a moment longer before shutting the door and walking up the stony drive. _316_ , the bronze plaque read on the stone pillar she passed. The last home on the edge of Farley Street. So many times had she driven by this property, silently in awe of the massive Tudor-esque structure: the tall windows; the steeply pitched roofs; the elaborate stonework of the lower level; all of it suggesting a style from some sort of bygone era, one that never failed to impress her no matter how many times she laid eyes on it.

Seeing it up close like this at night, however…something about this place just seemed so unreal to her. Almost frightening. As if the faint glow from the upper windows gave the building eyes that were watching her raptly as she approached. An involuntary shiver prompted her to cross her arms over her chest, but she forced her apprehensions aside as she ascended the brick steps of the porch, coming to stand before the ornately carved double-doors for what felt like an eternity.

Enough, she told herself. Exhaling steadily, she lifted a hand to knock on the—

She bit back a gasp when one of the doors flew wide open, revealing Jefferson on the other side. She stared, her heart thrumming even faster beneath her chest. His was a face that had haunted the thoughts and dreams of both her lives, and despite some of the modern changes in his appearance, those piercing blue eyes were just as captivating as ever.

"Clara," he said—

—but she swiftly raised a hand to silence him. "Please," she rasped, "that life is behind me now, and I'd rather keep it that way." Then she felt something strengthen inside her as she told him, "I prefer Lydia. Please."

For a long moment, he just stood there silently, his eyes boring into hers with an intensity that caused her to squeeze her jaws together. But then he was tilting his head as he simply responded, "As you wish," then stepped aside as he made a sweeping gesture for her to enter.

After a brief hesitation, Lydia stepped through the doorway, very aware of his proximity as she brushed past him. As she crossed into the foyer, however, she blinked, coming to a halt as her eyes slowly scanned her surroundings.

"Oh," she breathed, but barely a sound escaped her lips. It was the first time she'd ever set foot inside his home, and aside from some of the elaborate decorations and furnishings she saw…it wasn't what she was expecting. At all. Usually, such large structures had high ceilings and a vast, cold openness that made them feel akin to a museum, but not this place. The low ceilings, muted lighting, thick carpeting, and rich colors of the damask wallpaper gave it a warmth that she hadn't anticipated from a mansion. So much…cozier, the word came to mind. It was, in truth, a very pleasant surprise.

The audible _click_ of the door closing behind her broke her out of her reverie, and in the ensuing silence, she could sense Jefferson drawing nearer.

"Tea?" He inquired tersely.

"No," she replied quickly, turning to him. "Thanks, I…" The words died in her throat as her eyes locked with his. He was so close, and despite her nervousness, she couldn't help but let her eyes drift over him, noting how his overall appearance reflected the environment in which he now lived. His immaculate suit had obviously been tailored to his form; the brocade vest and silk scarf were no doubt worth more than everything she owned in her apartment; the intricate stitching of his Italian leather shoes; the glint of the signet ring on his finger; the fresh scent of his cologne; even his dark hair—once thick and unruly—was now short and styled in a way that allowed her to see his entire face. No longer the impoverished man she once knew from Wonderland, but someone who exuded wealth, success… _power_.

She cleared her throat. "You, um…you've certainly done well for yourself here."

He gave a humorless laugh. "Have I?"

Not even a hint of a smile had touched his features, making him appear as coldly handsome as ever. And yet…there was something shimmering within the depths of his icy eyes, a fathomless sorrow that had her heart clenching in pain.

Alone, she lamented silently. He's been here all alone…

Not a word passed between them, not even when she lifted a hand to reach for the scarf around his neck. There was no objection from Jefferson, who tilted his chin up just a bit as her fingertips pulled the silken material down…revealing the smooth scar encircling the entirety of his neck underneath. Her lower lip quivered as she released a trembling breath, and the telltale sting of tears caused her vision to blur as memories of long ago began to wash over her once more…

 _ **~Wonderland~**_

 _Despite the incessant churning of her stomach, Clara managed to push her revulsion aside, her hands steady and sure as she continued working the curved needle through the man's flesh over and over again. Regardless of the horrific circumstances, he was her patient now, and her primary objective was to make sure he received care that he needed. She was keeping the stitches small, ensuring that the resulting scar would be as thin as possible when she'd finished reattaching his head to his body._

Put him back together _, her mind whispered as she pulled the thread through once more._ That is your task…

" _Get it to work," he kept muttering to himself, "I gotta get it to work…"_

 _She paid him no mind as he rambled on about things that made little sense to her, the words fading in her ears as she continued to focus on her work._

" _Grace; Grace is…waiting for me. I have to find her. I…I promised…"_

 _Hearing him say that, however, was what had her heart breaking for him. She didn't know who Grace was, but judging by how he talked about her, it was clear that she was someone he deeply loved. Friend? Lover? Family? All she knew was that she was someone dear to his heart, and he was fated to never see her again._

 _But that was what the Queen of Hearts did best, wasn't it? Tore families and loved ones apart without any shred of remorse, and doomed them to an existence that left them forever shrouded in hopelessness._

 _Clara gritted her teeth against the burning pain in her chest. Damn you, she thought, damn you for everything you've done…_

" _You have to help me."_

 _It took a moment for her to realize that he was addressing her directly, and her hands stilled as she looked up at his stricken face._

" _My Grace; I have to get back to her. You have…you have to put me back together."_

 _I'm trying, she thought, drawing in a slow breath through her nose. Those eyes…they were so strikingly_ blue, _even in the dim light of the room._ _Though they were swimming with a myriad of painful emotions, she found herself completely transfixed by the way those shimmering blue orbs were focused on her. Deep down, something told her she'd never be able to forget them._

" _Grace," he choked out as his eyes pooled with tears. "I need my body back. Please. I need…I…I need…"_

 _She placed a hand on his shoulder—a light touch, but one that automatically quieted him. It was hard to say if he could actually sense the contact in his current condition, but the healer within her felt an instinctive need to provide him with some form of comfort, no matter how insignificant it might seem._

 _I'll help you, she vowed silently, pulling the needle through once more. In any way I can…Part of her still couldn't fathom the cruelty of it all: re-attaching a living head to its corpse, only to further subject him to torment and humiliation? Would he even regain mobility, or was this all just a twisted ploy to get his hopes up? What had he even done to warrant such a punishment? And what would become of him if he somehow succeeded in his task? What…would become of her?_

 _But she shook the thought from her mind. Finish the task, she told herself as she completed her final suture. Just finish the job at hand…_

 _Snipping the thread with her shears, she closed her eyes as an unmistakable rush of magic passed through her, like a warm wind rippling through the vastness of the stone chamber—_

 _She gasped in shock when a hand suddenly seized her throat, and before she could even react, her back was slammed up against the nearest wall. A jolt of pain shot through the back of her skull, making her see a bright flash of white behind her closed eyes._

" _Ahh…" She managed weakly, feeling the pain gradually fade to a dull throb. When the worst of it had subsided, she peeled her eyes open, taking in the sight of the man—no longer a decapitated corpse on the table—standing before her as those blazing blue eyes bore into hers. She didn't dare move, but while his hand was firmly grasping her neck, it wasn't enough to completely constrict her breathing._

 _For what felt like the longest minute of her life, he maintained his hold as his eyes continued to search hers. "Clara," he finally breathed._

 _Hearing him utter her name had her eyes widening slightly._

" _That's what the Knave called you," he said._

 _She couldn't even blink as she stared at him, but then she was slowly nodding in reply._

 _As he clenched his teeth beneath his cheeks, the hand around her neck blessedly loosened a bit. "Your shears."_

 _Not a question, but a command, and it only took a moment for her to realize that she was still grasping her shears in one hand. Any other time, she might have used them as a weapon in self-defense, but…Without a word, she carefully lifted her hand to offer the shears to him, and he finally released her as he accepted them. Clara coughed as she brought a hand to her throat, trying to ease the pounding of her heart as he inspected the sharpness of the twin blades. While he did, her eyes caught sight of the freshly stitched line surrounding his neck, and her vision began to blur with tears._

" _I need material," he finally said, lifting his gaze to hers._

 _Feeling two tears fall down her cheeks, she pointed to a table on the far side of the room, where several piles of neatly folded fabrics were already waiting for him._

" _Get it to work," he muttered under his breath before turning to go to his table. Clara sagged against the wall as he walked away, letting herself slide to the floor as she watched him reach for the fabric at the top of one pile. "I've gotta get it to work…"_

 _ **~Storybrooke~**_

It was Jefferson's hand on her wrist that drew her out of her thoughts.

"You should proud of your handiwork," he said flatly, "it's kept me together after all these years."

She stared, then blinked slowly, not surprised when she felt the warmth of tears spilling from her eyes. His hand was still holding onto hers, his grip firm yet gentle.

Then she saw the barest flare of his nostrils as he exhaled. "Come with me," he rasped, his hand sliding from hers as he turned and headed for the nearby staircase. There was no hurry in his step.

Watching him ascend the stairs, Lydia contemplated the notion of bolting out the front door, but at the same time…

Sniffing quietly, she wiped away her tears. Taking a deep breath, she wrapped her arms around herself before following him up the stairs.


	4. A Reluctant Apprentice

The décor of the second level proved to be just as quaint as it was downstairs, from intricate leaves carved into the oak moldings, to the serene appeal of cream-colored walls. Cresting the winding staircase, Lydia noted the neatly framed pictures lining both sides of the hallway, her eyes scanning each one as Jefferson continued to lead her along. Most of them appeared to be rough sketches of trees, making her feel as though she was walking through some sort of strange charcoal forest. Part of her had to wonder if Jefferson had drawn them by hand.

But despite her quiet fascinations, Lydia found herself unnerved by Jefferson's silence, especially when she focused on the series of closed doors flanking them on either side. It served to remind her of the countless cells down in the dungeon, the nightmare that had become her reality for the rest of her days…

A shiver ran up her spine. "Where are we going?" She heard herself ask, hardly caring how breathless she sounded.

"Not far," was his vague reply.

She sighed, tightening her arms around herself. "It's just us, isn't it?" That was when he finally paused, turning to look back at her with that intense blue gaze. "We're the only ones in Storybrooke who remember. Aren't we?"

He continued to stare. Then, "So it would seem."

Slowly, she shook her head, trying to think of something more to say, but all she could come up with was, "Why?"

His eyes searched hers, and she couldn't ignore the way her heart unexpectedly fluttered. It never ceased to amaze her how much those bright orbs could convey without uttering a single word. Every emotion, every hope, every fear, every shimmer of pain…A quiet language she'd come to understand all too well in their time together.

"I don't know," he admitted softly, reaching out to turn the knob on the nearest door.

A sudden sense of warning flared within her chest. "What's in there?"

"Something I need you to see," he pushed it open to reveal darkness on the other side.

She swallowed. "Jefferson, we should talk."

"And we will. But for now," he indicated the doorway, "ladies first." Still, she hesitated, looking at him uncertainly…but then something in his features softened. "Please," he gently pressed.

It wasn't so much the request that struck her, but the pleading undertone in his voice, and with a conceding sigh, Lydia squared her shoulders and entered the darkened room—

As Jefferson flicked on the lights, she came to an immediate halt, a sense of dread settling in the pit of her stomach. Oh God…The room he'd brought her to was obviously a workshop, but not just any workshop. The materials strewn upon the table; the assortment of cutting tools and pins; the shelves lined with examples of his finished products…This was a _hat-making_ room.

 _Get it to work…get it to work…_

No, her mind whispered, the weight of those memories causing her heart sink. Not again…

"They don't work," Jefferson announced, snapping her out of her reverie as he brushed past her. "None of them do; there's no magic to make them work." Approaching the illuminated shelves, he reached out and selected a hat, turning it over in his hands. "I've made so many of these. Twenty-eight years, and I never understood why I felt so compelled to keep making them. I just had this drive, this incessant _need_ that told me I had to—"

"Find a way home," she interjected, rubbing her hands over her arms. It brought her no comfort. "It's what you knew. From Wonderland; something about it…stayed with you."

His shoulders visibly sagged as he exhaled. "Just as your devotion to your patients has stayed with you."

A pang of guilt hit her chest, and she clenched her jaw tightly. My devotion, she silently scoffed…

"You know what it's like," he said, lifting his eyes to hers, "feeling like an outcast in the very world you're supposed to call 'home'? Living your life—day in, day out—wondering why your dreams feel more like reality than your very own existence?" She held her breath as he walked towards her once more, remaining rooted to the spot as he drew near. "Not understanding why you feel drawn to certain people, but knowingyou have some sort of connection to them? Like you knew one another in a past life, and fate has suddenly decided to bring you back together once more." He practically loomed over her now, but her eyes remained riveted on the hat in his hands. "You know how that feels, don't you?"

" _Yes_ ," she rasped harshly. She knew _exactly_ how that felt, and everything she'd ever questioned about her life here finally made sense. All those times she'd gazed out her apartment window and wondered why she felt so out of place here; her unexplainable remorse whenever a co-worker inquired about her absent family; the mild panic seizing her whenever she heard the occasional _drip, drip_ from the kitchen faucet. And why—despite having a full roster of patients at the clinic—her thoughts inevitably returned to one man in particular. A man whose erratic behavior intimidated her, but also _intrigued_ her at the same time. _Jefferson Harris_. Simply seeing his name on his file folder was enough to captivate her in a way that was completely different from all her other patients.

Because I was with him. "Yes," she repeated on an exhale.

He drew up slowly. "Clara Forsythe, renowned surgeon of Wonderland; now Dr. Lydia Warner of Storybrooke," he uttered, glancing back down at his hat. "So my apprentice returns to me."

Hearing that made the blood in her veins go cold. "Please don't make me do this," she nearly whispered.

He lifted his head. "Do what, exactly?"

"The hats," she pleaded, shaking her head. "I can't go through all that again. Please."

He blinked, his brow furrowing. "That's not why I asked you here."

Oh…Though relieved, it was her turn to furrow her brow. "Then why?"

His eyes searched hers, that blue gaze seeming to shimmer as he told her, "Because you're the only one who truly understands. I needed to know that I'm not alone."

Hearing this had her heart swell unexpectedly. "You're not alone," the words left her lips before she even realized she was speaking. Deep down, though, she couldn't deny the sincerity behind them. "You never were."

There was the barest quiver in his chin. "I know where she is."

Lydia felt her eyes slowly widen. "Your daughter?"

"Grace," he acknowledged, his grip on the hat tightening. "She's here."

Her lips parted on a faint intake of breath. "Where?"

Looking to his left, he gestured toward the ornate bronze telescope at the far window. "See for yourself."

The idea of him spying on others should have unnerved her more than it did, but she found her curiosity outweighing her uncertainty as she stepped over to the telescope, bending down to look through the eyepiece. In the illuminated dining room of what she knew to be the neighboring house, Lydia saw the circular image of a family gathered around the dinner table. A scene she would have normally regarded as peaceful; lovely...if not for the little girl who immediately became her focal point. One whose dark hair, sweet face, and gentle smile were hardly unknown to her, and she drew in the barest of gasps as she looked up from the telescope. "Paige..."

"It's Grace," Jefferson's voice was suddenly behind her, but she managed not to jump, "that's my daughter."

His daughter. So many times during their confinement, she'd wondered what a child of his might look like, had entertained the hopeless thought of perhaps meeting her one day…

"I know her as Paige," she offered, looking back at him. "Paige Treemont. She's one of my patients."

"It's Grace," he stated firmly. "Her name may have been changed, but it's her. I _know_ it's her. All this time, and she's been living right next door to me…"

Hearing the underlying pain in his words had her heart swelling sympathetically. "She's a sweet girl," she said, her stomach stirring when his eyes searched hers. "And smart; very smart. And her parents are good people. I know her father—"

"He's _not_ her father," he suddenly hissed. "I am."

After a pause, Lydia patiently lifted a hand in a placating manner. "I'm just telling you what I know of her in this world. The Treemonts are good people. That's all."

His eyes remained locked with hers, and then he pursed his lips as he walked over to the window. "She looks exactly the same," he said, "the same as the day I…" He trailed off, shaking his head slowly. "So many times, I've looked out and seen her, not understanding why the sight of her caused me so much _pain,_ but now it all makes sense. It makes horrible, _horrible_ sense." He lifted a hand to the glass. "This house; this entire way of existence…all these years, they've been nothing but _empty_ without her. What I would give to hold her in my arms again…"

His words were heartfelt, but something about his tone caused an uneasiness to itch at the back of her mind. "Jefferson…"

"All this time. All this time, and you've been right here…"

"Jefferson," she repeated, a bit firmer this time, "you didn't call me over here to reminisce on the past; that's the last thing either one of us wants to do. So why am I really here?"

His head was angled back towards her, giving her only a glimpse of his profile against the darkness of the window. "She has no memory of me at all, does she?"

She thought about how to answer that. "I would think that—considering the relationship you said you had with her—if she had regained her memories, then she'd be knocking on every door in Storybrooke until her father was found. Not sitting at home with her family."

His shoulders rose and fell visibly. "My sentiments exactly. Which is why I need your help."

"My help?"

"Yes. I know nothing about her life here, save for what I've seen from the confines of this house. But _you_ ," he turned to face her at last, "you as her doctor have been treating her all these years, so you have critical information about her in your records."

Her eyes widened slightly at that. "Jefferson—"

"You do," he insisted, closing the distance between them, "and that means you're the only one who can give me any possible answers. What have you treated her for? Does she give any indication at all that she remembers her past? What does she tell you about her family? Does she ever indicate that she feels like doesn't belong here, either?" She held her breath as his hand grasped her shoulder, squeezing slightly. " _Please_. You have to tell me everything you know about her."

God, those eyes. The way they shimmered with so much sadness, hope, longing…Opening her mouth, she breathed the word, "No."

He blinked. "No?"

"No," she repeated. "I'm sorry, Jefferson, but I can't do that."

He stared in disbelief. "You're the only one in any kind of position to help me, and you're telling me _no_?"

"It's a matter of confidentiality," she explained, trying to ignore the tightening pressure on her shoulder. "Legally, I'm not allowed to divulge patient information unless they've explicitly given me consent to do so. That's how patient privacy laws work here."

Those blue eyes narrowed. "You mean that's how the laws work in _this_ world."

"Yes," she replied without hesitation, "and I face serious repercussions if I ever consciously break them. I don't want to jeopardize all the work I've put into building that trust with my patients."

Slowly, he shook his head. "You probably know more about her than anyone in this town—perhaps even more than her adoptive parents—and yet you won't help me?"

"I'm sorry, but no. Not like this."

For what felt like an eternity, he simply stared at her, and all she could do was stare back. Then she drew in a breath when his hand slid down to her wrist. "There was once a time when you would help me without a second thought."

She squeezed her jaws together as his thumb traced the scar encircling her skin. "And look what that cost me," she whispered, carefully pulling out of his grasp. "I'm not the same person you knew back in Wonderland. When I said that life is behind me, I meant it. I feel like I've been given a second chance here, and I don't intend to repeat the mistakes of my past."

His lower lip quivered. "But she's my daughter."

She looked at him sadly. "So you say, but how do I know that for sure?"

The iciness that suddenly overtook his gaze was enough to get her heart pounding all over again. "You think I'd lie to you about that?"

With a sigh, Lydia lifted a hand to calm him. "It's not that I'm trying to accuse you of lying. You were the only one who came to Wonderland, so I have no idea what she looks like. And knowing that you've a tendency to—"

"To what?" He interrupted, the scorn evident in his voice. "Display moments of instability from time-to-time? Dare I say, symptoms of ' _madness_ ,' as you might have so eloquently put in your notes?"

Closing her eyes, she said, "Don't do that. I was using what resources I had at the time, and diagnosing you as bipolar was the best I could do." She crossed her arms over her chest. "Right now, I have to make sure this isn't a potential fantasy built up in your mind because of how you are desperate to see your daughter again. I have to think about Paige's safety first."

He was staring at the hat in his hand once more. "Her name is _Grace_ ," he muttered quietly, "and you suggest that in madness, I don't recognize my own daughter."

Lydia watched as he slowly lifted the hat and placed it on his head, an ultimate sense of déjà vu overwhelming her senses as he settled it into place. Fates…

He bent close, his face mere inches away from hers. "Madness or not, I have never— _never_ —lied to you, Lydia. Not in this lifetime, nor any other before it."

She swallowed, only able to focus on the fact that he was so, so close…

There was an almost indiscernible flicker in his eyes, and then he was pulling back, averting his gaze with a sigh. "You were always deserving of honesty."

At that, she blinked slowly. Something about his words struck her in a way she hadn't expected—comforted her, even. And as he stood before her, she found herself overcome with the desire to reach out to him; to place a hand on his shoulder; anything to reassure him…

"I should go," she heard herself whisper.

He didn't look at her, but she caught the barest purse of his lips. "As you wish."

She hesitated, but knew there was nothing else to be said in that moment. Turning on her heel, she made her way back towards the door, but then paused halfway across the room.

"That curse," she breathed, turning to look at him. "With everything you've told me about Regina, she would have done everything in her power to keep us trapped here. Indefinitely." She shook her head. "So why has it suddenly weakened?"

"I don't know," he uttered turning back to the window once more. It was all he said.

She released a breath through her nose. "You're not alone, Jefferson. I'm still here if you need a friend."

"Is that what you are?"

"It's what I can be," she vowed. "Just remember that."

When he still didn't look at her, Lydia took that as her cue to leave, and finally exited the room. Once she was out in the hall, she came to a halt, suddenly aware of how rapidly her heart was beating beneath her chest. Inhaling deeply, she glanced down at her wrists, seeing the pale scars that encircled them both. No longer due to the accident she'd convinced herself had occurred in her youth, but an ever-present reminder of the nightmares that had once been her reality. Her punishment for helping those who'd convinced her that she was their only hope.

 _All magic comes with a price…_

Her eyes stung with tears, but she forced the sensation aside. Clenching her hands into fists, she continued to make her way through the vast maze of a mansion.


	5. Clarity in Madness

_**~Wonderland~**_

 _Her task didn't get any easier to endure when they beheaded him the second time. Once again, Clara resigned herself to seeing to her patient's needs, her lifelong duty of sewing flesh-to-flesh as wave after wave of nausea rolled over her. It wasn't the act itself that affected her so, but the fact that the eyes trained on her throughout the procedure were very much awake. Aware._ Alive. _A perversion of the laws of nature that her extensive instruction in the healing arts had been built around. Forcing him to live so that he might succeed in the task bestowed upon him._

 _A task that would be impossible to achieve without the presence of magic._

 _Sighing through her nose, she pulled the thread taut, finishing another suture. All the while, she knew he was staring at her, but never made eye contact with him. She couldn't. She just couldn't. Not when memories of his manic behavior only hours ago continued to plague her mind—_

" _Why?"_

 _She froze, still unable to bring herself to look at him as his unexpected inquiry hung in the air._

" _Why do you help me?"_

 _Breathe, her mind whispered, remaining silent as she set her jaw and proceeded with her next stitch._

" _Clara."_

 _Hearing her name jolted her heart, causing her to freeze yet again._

" _Please…say something," the man implored. "Anything."_

 _Closing her eyes, she exhaled quietly, and when she opened them again, she finally summoned the courage to look at him…and proceeded to be captivated by those eyes once more. So different than what she'd seen in them while he was frantically working to make all those hats earlier in the day. The repetition of his words and actions becoming ever more frenzied the longer he forced himself to work._

 _But the clarity in them now…the focus on her…_

 _Blinking slowly, she lamely rasped, "Be still." It was all she could think of to say. Pursing her lips, she pulled the thread taught as she completed another stitch._

 _Several minutes passed before she heard him say, "You fear me."_

" _No," was her immediate reply._

" _Then why do you cry?"_

 _She drew up then, bringing a hand to her cheek, and sure enough, her fingers came away glistening with tears. She hadn't even been aware that she'd been crying, and seeing the dampness on her fingertips had her releasing a trembling sigh._

" _It's my doing," he rasped._

 _But then she was shaking her head slowly. "No. No; it's not_ you _. I hate her for what she's done to you."_

" _The Queen of Hearts."_

 _She gave a measured nod, feeling more tears fall down her cheeks. "I don't care what your crime was," she looked at him, "no one deserves to be punished like this."_

 _For a long moment, they regarded one another, those blue depths regarding her with an emotion she couldn't decipher…_

 _Trust, her mind whispered. It was_ trust _that she was seeing in his gaze, and the realization triggered an unexpected ache beneath her chest._

" _I-I'm Jefferson," he finally said._

 _Jefferson, she repeated to herself as she wiped the tears from her eyes. Not a name that was native to Wonderland, which made sense given the Knave's words._ He claims to have come to Wonderland by means of a magical hat. _"Where do you come from?"_

" _The Enchanted Forest."_

 _Yes, she'd heard of that place, but had never seen it with her own eyes. Had never even left Wonderland, for that matter. "You're a long way from home," she commented as she brought the needle to his neck once more._

" _Why do you do this?" Her eyes darted back to him. "Why do you help me?"_

" _You asked me to help."_

" _But_ why _? I know they're forcing you to, but I am no one to you; you have no obligation or responsibility to me. So why bother helping a stranger when it's no benefit to you?"_

 _The furrow in her brow deepened as he spoke, and she simply told him, "Because regardless of circumstances, I don't turn my back on those who need me." Her voice dropped low. "And right now, you need me."_

 _Those shimmering eyes were still locked with hers, the trust in them evident even as they began to overflow with tears. "Grace," he whimpered. "My girl…"_

 _Feeling her heart clench painfully, Clara was suddenly glad for the distraction of her work. Aside from his audible sniffs, Jefferson remained quiet as she continued her task, and every so often, she stole glances at his stricken face. Just by looking at him, she could tell his heart was broken, which only served to intensify her hatred for the usurper Queen. How could she do this to him? Do this to a man who wasn't even one of her own subjects? What did it even matter now that she and Jefferson had been assigned to their respective fates?_

 _Still, she had to admit what a drastic change in his demeanor this was. How much more lucid he seemed to be whenever he was in this position—_

 _Snipping the thread of the last suture, that familiar rush of magic had barely passed over them before Jefferson reared up, and Clara gasped as his hands grasped her shoulders._

" _What are you—" But her voice abruptly failed her when her eyes met his…and immediately felt a penetrating chill cut deep down to her bones. Gone was the coherent man she'd tended to on that table, the lucidity she's previously seen in his gaze replaced with a restlessness that haunted her waking thoughts. Once again the deranged individual she'd first seen when they dragged her to this cell…and an acute fear began overtaking her senses the longer his gaze held hers._

" _Get it to work," Jefferson rasped. "That is my task. That is how I return home."_

 _As her vision swam with tears, Clara somehow managed to wheeze, "Jefferson…"_

 _Something in his eyes seemed to waver then, even if only slightly._

 _Pulling in a breath, she exhaled shakily. "Please."_

 _He blinked, and though it took a moment longer, he finally loosened his grip, allowing her to pull away as he visibly became preoccupied with his thoughts._

" _Get it to work," he breathed, swinging his legs over the opposite side of the stone table. "So I can be with Grace; I've gotta get it to work."_

 _Clara watched him as he stood, repeating those phrases under his breath as he made his way over to his work table, which was already littered with dozens upon dozens of finished hats. None of them worked; not a single one. Tears rolled hotly down her cheeks, and it was only then that she realized how tightly she'd been gripping the shears in her palm. Whether it was out of fear, or because she thought they might offer some sort of protection against the frightening shift in his demeanor, she didn't know. All she knew was that for a brief time…she'd seen something more than just the maniacal hat-maker she'd been doomed to spend the rest of her days with._

 _Only to be lost to his endless task yet again._

 _Forcing her hand to relax, she waited while the stinging pain from that awkward grip gradually subsided. It was a welcome sensation compared to the aching fear in her heart._

* * *

 _ **~Storybrooke~**_

From the front third-story window, he watched her go. Down the brick steps, across the stony drive, and back to that modest white car she'd driven over here…though she did pause, sparing his mansion one last glance before opening the door at last.

Jefferson's hands subconsciously clenched into fists. Don't go, his mind whispered. Lydia…

But as her car made its way down the curved driveway, he sighed in disappointment, waiting until she was on the main road before turning away from the window at last. The one person who could potentially reunite him with his Grace, and yet she wanted no part of it. Despite her determination to help him escape from Wonderland—to help him find a way back to his daughter...something had drastically changed since their days in captivity.

Not everything, though, he mused silently, clasping his hands behind his back as he made his way back down the hall. Her name may have changed, but Lydia looked exactly as he remembered her. Her dark brown hair was only slightly shorter now, which she typically had pulled back in a French braid whenever she was on-duty; her green eyes—flecked with touches of hazel—still conveying the warmth and intelligence that had always been part of her character. Her hands: still so steady and sure after all this time, even if all she was doing was checking his vitals. Everything about her so familiar in appearance that it had been a relief when his memories returned to him. His apprentice really _had_ come back to him, and he could only hope that somehow, the same could eventually be said for Grace.

That is, if she ever got her own memories back.

Returning to his hat-making room, Jefferson peered through his telescope once more, seeing the image of his Grace now sitting alone at the dining room table. She was drawing—or writing; he couldn't really be sure—and it broke his heart all over again to see her now. Gnawed by guilt knowing that he'd left her all those years ago and never returned; that he'd broken the promise he'd made to never leave her.

Which also meant he'd broken the promise he'd made to Priscilla…

Drawing back, the ever-present pain of loss intensified in his heart, and he didn't bother wiping away the tear that fell down his face. My Grace, he thought. It was hard to say why the curse had suddenly faltered, or why he and Lydia seemed to be the only ones who remembered their pasts, but the only thing that mattered was that after all these years, he'd finally found his daughter again. Whether Lydia helped him or not, he knew he'd stop at nothing to be with her, regardless of the consequences that followed.

 _That curse…she would have done everything in her power to keep us trapped here._

Lydia's words echoed in his mind. It was true: based on her mastery of dark magic, Regina's curse wouldn't have weakened so easily, not without the presence of some kind of—

—of _magic_.

He drew in a breath, released it. Magic that could very well be solution he was looking for. Only a strong magic could have lifted the veil of Regina's curse in such a manner, and there was no doubt in his mind that it was because someone had brought magic to Storybrooke.

The question was: who?


	6. Night Visitor

" _You have reached the voice mailbox of: THREE, ONE, SEVEN, FOUR, FOUR, TWO…"_

Damn it, Lydia cursed to herself, ending the call. Setting her phone on her desk, she brought a hand to rub at her forehead. It had been nearly two weeks since she'd last seen Jefferson, and in that time, he'd missed two standing appointments with her. They'd previously been meant as follow-ups to make adjustments to the multitude of medications she'd prescribed him, but part of her hoped this time could now be used to talk about their current situation. Perhaps even diffuse any lingering tensions between them since their last conversation. But the fact that he hadn't even bothered contacting her office to cancel these appointments caused an incessant worry to gnaw at her heart.

With a sigh, she glanced down at her notes, going over the long list of antidepressants and anti-anxiety meds she'd had him try over the years. Some had helped; others only worsened his symptoms. Ultimately, none of the trial runs had been particularly successful in his case, but that made sense now. Flipping the page back over, she scanned the sparse details of his family medical history, feeling a wave of sorrow wafting through her.

Where are you, Jefferson?

"Dr. Warner?" Lydia snapped her head up at the soft knock, seeing their receptionist, Kelly, standing in the doorway. "Your 11:30 is here," she held up a patient's file in her hand.

Lifting her brows, Lydia drew in a breath, released it. "Right." She hesitated, then rubbed at her forehead again. "Right."

"You okay, Doc?"

"Just a headache," she shook her head dismissively, closing Jefferson's file. "I'll be right out; just give me a sec."

As Kelly came in to hand over the file, Lydia released a long, slow sigh. Regardless of her concern for Jefferson's well-being, her other patients took priority right now, and she forced herself to mentally shift gears.

They need you, too, she thought, standing up at last. And they're the only ones you can help right now. Opening the file, she glanced through the summarizing details the nurse had provided, her mind already making potential analyses as she headed out of her office.

* * *

 _Tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap._

Stirring out of sleep, Lydia shifted slightly, settling back against her pillow with a heavy sigh.

 _Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap._

Brow furrowing, she turned over, glancing at the glowing green numbers of the clock on her nightstand. _3:19A.M._

Wha…? Her first instinct was to question if that low branch was hitting her window again, but…

 _Tap-tap-tap-tap._

No. No, it didn't sound like there was any wind outside. And that pattern was far too steady to just be a branch. Then what in the world…?

Reaching over to flick on the bedside lamp, she squinted momentarily as her eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness, rubbing at them before throwing back the covers. Once she'd slipped on her robe, she made her way out to the short hallway that led her living room, hearing that same _tap-tap-tap_ , a bit more distinctly this time. Feeling around for the light switch on the wall, she flicked it on, her eyes scanning the modest furnishings and seeing nothing out of the ordinary. But as she walked further in—

 _TAP-TAP-TAP._

Snapping her head over to the sliding glass door, she gasped harshly, a hand clutching at her chest when she realized someone was standing outside on her back porch. Her first instinct was to scream, or run and grab the baseball bat from her closet, or…

As the intruder looked up and made eye contact, Lydia's jaw dropped in recognition. _"Jefferson?"_ She rasped.

A look of relief seemed to pass over him, and she immediately hurried over to unlatch the door.

"My God, what are you doing here?" She asked as she slid the door open, but then the questions in her mind were instantly silenced when she saw the bleeding cut on his forehead. And the way he was clutching his left arm as he slouched against the glass door. And the strain in his features conveying his obvious pain. "Jefferson," she reached out, but stopped short of touching him, "you're hurt."

"Yeah," he wheezed, his voice clearly laced with pain.

"What happened?"

"I…" He heaved a sigh. "…fell out a window."

Her eyes went wide. "You _what_?"

He shook his head. "It's a long story."

"Why on Earth didn't you call an ambulance? You should be in the hospital in case—"

"No!" He interrupted, and as Lydia fell silent, he released a slow breath. "I can't….I can't go to the hospital right now." He lifted his pleading eyes to hers. "Please: I had nowhere else to go. I need your help."

She knew there was far more than what he was telling her, but the healer inside her soon took over and she dismissed it as she lightly placed a hand on his back. "Come inside," she said, gently leading him in.

Locking the door behind them, she guided him over to the couch, helping him ease down as he continued to clutch his arm.

"Can I see?" She asked, taking a seat next to him. He didn't answer, but slowly took his hand away, allowing her to carefully take his arms in her hands. "Where is it hurting?" She asked, gently pressing her fingertips into him.

"Shoulder," he gritted.

"Okay. Deep breath," she advised, and as she brought her fingers to his shoulder, he hissed and grimaced in pain.

"Ah, damn it," he groaned.

That, coupled with the prominent bulge she'd detected under his skin, confirmed her suspicions. "Shhh, relax," she soothed, removing her hand. "You've dislocated your shoulder. Most likely where you took the brunt of the impact when you hit the ground."

He briefly pursed his lips. "Can you fix it?"

"I can, but I'm going to need you to relax yourself as best as you can. Wait here." Rising from the couch, Lydia went to grab everything she would need to administer the first-aid he needed. Organizing the items on her coffee table, she returned to his side and took his arm once more.

"Okay, so remember: keep yourself relaxed. You're going to feel some pressure, but the less tension you hold in your body, the easier it'll be on you. Alright?"

His cheeks puffed as he blew out a breath, and then he gave an ascending nod.

Moving his arm carefully, she advised him to "Breathe" as she encouraged him to bend his elbow, rotating his wrist upward before easing the limb back. When he drew in a hissing breath, she instinctively paused. "Easy," she said, "Keep breathing. This next part is where you'll probably feel pain, but bear with me." As he exhaled, she pushed up on his arm as gently as possible, and then his shoulder suddenly shifted forward with a _pop_ , and his eyes bulged before squeezing shut.

" _Ohh!"_ He groaned, but Lydia kept her hands on him, trying to keep him from doubling over.

"It's okay, it's okay. Keep breathing. That was the worst of it. I'm gonna rotate your arm forward now, and I want you to hold onto it for a sec…"

Jefferson did as he was told, and minutes later, she was placing his arm in a sling, helping him adjust the strap to a comfortable length.

"It's hard to say if you tore any ligaments," she said, reaching for the ice pack she'd filled, "but if you're not in excessive pain right now, you probably lucked out. We need to keep it iced, though," she gently placed it on his shoulder, seeing him wince slightly, "to help prevent swelling. The less movement you make with this arm, the better. At least until it has a chance to heal."

Jefferson breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, and eventually brought his other hand to the ice pack, giving a nod to indicate that he could hold it. As his face gradually relaxed, Lydia was already coating a gauze pad with antiseptic, bringing it to his forehead to clean the cut over his eyebrow. Thankfully, it wasn't very deep. Every so often, he'd wince, even as she cleaned the small scrapes she'd found on his cheeks, but each time, she gave him a chance to adjust before dabbing at him again. While tending to him, Lydia couldn't help but note the tears in his shirt and his disheveled hair, and something about his appearance had her sighing to herself.

"I was worried, you know," she mentioned, unwrapping a couple of butterfly bandages. "Not hearing from you at all for two weeks, thinking something might have happened to you." She frowned, adding, "Tonight certainly doesn't help." It was as she brought one bandage to his forehead that she locked eyes with him, feeling herself momentarily freeze. God, they were so incredibly bright... "It scares me," she admitted, smoothing the bandage across the top of his cut, "thinking I could be left all alone here. That someday I'll wake up, and you really will be gone." Placing the second bandage just below the first, she drew back slightly, letting her eyes search his. "There's no one from my past here other than you, Jefferson. No one else I can turn to. You may have had your daughter, but any of my family, my friends…I didn't have anyone else in Wonderland." She took a breath, her voice almost dropping to a whisper. "You're all I have."

As he continued to stare, something passed through his eyes, and as she caught the barest furrow of his brow, a sudden flush hit her face. Quickly averting her eyes, Lydia exhaled slowly through her nose. She wasn't sure why, but she couldn't bring herself to look at him in that moment. Not while she could still feel that burning sensation in her cheeks.

"Please say something," she uttered softly, rubbing her thumb over her knuckles as she waited for him to—

"I'm sorry," he said at last, prompting her to turn at last. "I'm sorry I made you worry. And…" He seemed to debate his next words. "…thank you. For worrying about me."

Hearing the sincerity in his voice had something in her chest tightening, though not in an uncomfortable way. "I still wish you'd gone to the hospital. At the very least, they could have checked for any signs of a concussion."

"I'm okay," he assured. "I hear what you're saying, and I know it's for the best, but…" He shook his head. "I just can't do that."

Though that worried her, she knew he wouldn't change his mind. "Do me a favor, then: if you start to feel any nausea or pressure, or anything that seems out of the ordinary, will you please tell me? I just want to make sure you're properly cared for, is all."

His eyes still held hers, and she could sense the relief and gratitude that were shimmering behind them. "I can do that."

That had her smiling faintly, and it was then that she noticed the traces of mild fatigue overtaking his features. "Listen, it's late, and I'm due at the office in a few hours," she stood, crossing her arms over her chest, "but I really don't like the idea of you leaving right now. Why don't you stay here for the rest of the night? You can have the sofa, and that way, I can check on you before I leave. If you're doing okay, you can call a cab to take you home in the morning."

Even as she said it, he was looking up at her with an acquiescing expression. "Alright."

Good, she thought, feeling relieved at his acceptance. Situating him so that he was laying down comfortably, Lydia grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch, unfolding it and draping it over his lower body. "I know it's not much," she mentioned, "but at least you'll have a chance to rest and keep that arm stable for a—"

"Lydia."

She paused, her eyes locking with his, and as she detected the warmth radiating from his gaze, she felt that strange flutter in her pulse again.

"Thank you," he breathed.

Feeling her heart swell, Lydia opened her mouth to speak, but for some reason, the words failed her, and she sighed quietly as she simply gave him a nod. "Get some rest, Jefferson," she told him, flicking the light off for him as she made her way back to her bedroom, closing the door behind her.

* * *

 _ **~Wonderland~**_

 _"…to work," Jefferson exhaled, his voice barely audible as he fought against his exhaustion. "Get it…get it…to…to work…"_

 _Coming up behind him, Clara carefully draped a bolt of fabric over his shoulders, not saying a word as his head drooped to the stone table. For hours, he'd been resisting the urge to sleep, and it was always a nightmare watching him work himself into a frenzy—for days at a time—neglecting his own physical and mental well-being; uttering the same phrases over and over again to keep him motivated; all for the sake of his hats. His many, many…many hats. But at times, even he had to eventually succumb to his body's natural need for rest and recovery, and as she stood back, she let her eyes linger on him a moment longer._

 _"Get it…to work," he echoed once more, and then he was snoring softly._

 _Clara looked at with sorrowful eyes. Every day, it was the same thing, and every day, she had to watch him do this to himself. Over and over again. And just like every time, this moment of quiet would only be a temporary reprieve._

 _With a sigh, Clara turned and made her way to the far corner of the cell. Kneeling upon the thin scraps of fabric she'd used to cover the floor, she laid herself down, still feeling the chill of the stone floor beneath her skin. Drawing the large muffin cap she used for a pillow close, she fluffed it uselessly, then settled her head upon it as she stared at the wall beside her. The same wall she looked at every single night, with the same stones she'd counted over and over and over again._

 _Feeling her eyes fill with tears, Clara closed her eyes and cried, her quiet sobs no louder than the sound of Jefferson's heavy breathing._

* * *

 _ **~Storybrooke~**_

In her room, Lydia's eyes had adjusted to the dark, staring over at the door on the opposite wall. She knew she needed to sleep, but it was distracting knowing that Jefferson was just beyond that door, sleeping peacefully in her living room. At least, she hoped it was peacefully. With all the pain and anguish he'd put himself through during those years, he certainly deserved a night of dreamless sleep.

Jefferson, her mind whispered.

Shifting beneath her covers, Lydia lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling with a sigh. Though her eyes gradually drifted shut, her thoughts continued to dwell on her unexpected guest, and she could only hope that sleep would soon follow.


	7. The Truth Will Out

"…and if her cough persists after two days, call me right away so we can get her back in," Lydia advised, handing over the prescription she'd just written. "This should take care of it, though. It's a very effective suppressant for toddlers."

"Thank you, doctor," her patient's mother said, shifting her young daughter on her lap as she accepted the small slip. "That you for squeezing us in on such short notice."

"Not at all," she smiled as she stood, "just make sure she gets plenty of fluids the next few days. Kelly will check you out up front when you're ready."

As she made her way out of the consultation room, Lydia dropped her patient's chart off at the receptionist's station, Giving Kelly a few brief instructions before heading back to the copy room. Earlier in the day, Dr. Whale—one of her colleagues from the hospital—had requested some patient information from her earlier that day, and she sifted through the pages of the file he'd specified, looking for details pertaining to his request.

As she did, though, her thoughts inevitably returned to Jefferson, and her gaze became unfocused as she stared out the nearby window. It had been three days since he'd shown up at her apartment in the middle of the night, and part of her still worried that he might have sustained some sort of concussion as a result of his supposed fall. It would have put her mind more at ease if he'd come into the clinic for an assessment, but for some reason, he was still hesitant about leaving his house. Thankfully, he hadn't opposed to her making calls to him at regular intervals, and, to her pleasant surprise, he'd been quite forthcoming with answers to all of her questions. So far, he didn't seem to be displaying any symptoms typical with concussions, which had her breathing a sigh of relief. Perhaps he would even agree to her making a house call later this afternoon—

"Dr. Warner?"

Snapping her head around, Lydia saw Kelly standing in the doorway…and blinked when she realized someone was with her. Someone wearing a very distinct red leather jacket. "Sheriff Swan?"

Emma Swan—Storybrooke's newly elected sheriff in recent weeks—dismissed Kelly with a nod of her head. "I'm sorry to bother you, Dr. Warner, but I was told you'd be on duty today."

"No, no it's fine," she shook her head, snapping herself to attention. "How can I help you?"

Sheriff Swan seemed to momentarily take in her surroundings before mentioning, "I was speaking with your receptionist, and I understand that Jefferson Harris is one of your patients."

Her stomach instantly sank at the mention of his name. "Uh…h-he's one of my regulars, yes." She furrowed her brow slightly. "Why? What is this about?"

Despite the calmness in her features, Sheriff Swan's thin smile held an edge of sympathy that she hadn't been prepared for, and for some reason, that concerned her more than she wanted to admit. "Is there someplace we can talk privately? There are some things I'd like to discuss with you, and I want to make sure we're out of earshot of your patients."

* * *

Jefferson was glad he owned so many button-down shirts: it made it less of a hassle to get dressed while his shoulder continued to heal. Securing the last button at his neck, he took his time as he reached for the black silk scarf on the dresser and wrapped it around his neck in a well-practiced manner, making sure any traces of his scar were hidden from view. Once he was satisfied with his overall appearance in the mirror, he drew in a breath, released it.

That'll have to do, he mused to himself. Retrieving his sling, he recalled the instructions Lydia had given him as he carefully settled his arm back in its cradle. Though his pain had significantly lessened over the past few days, she'd advised him to keep wearing the sling for at least a week in order to expedite the healing process. It did help, and as he made one last adjustment to his strap, he stilled as he stared at his reflection. The thin, dark scab on his forehead was almost unnoticeable now, and at best, he gave the appearance of someone who'd merely sprained their shoulder.

He sighed through his nose. Despite his disappointment in her refusal to disclose information about Grace, he'd been lucky. Lucky that she'd been willing to take him in that night; lucky that she'd had the skills necessary to treat him herself; lucky that…that she was still someone who _cared_ enough about him to simply help him when he needed her most. And after the events of that disastrous night, it became abundantly clear that she was the only one in Storybrooke he could truly trust.

Though as he glanced at the antique clock on the wall, he couldn't help but wonder why she hadn't called yet. She was typically right on time with her check-up calls, but perhaps the clinic was unusually busy on Friday afternoons—

The great, echoing chime of the doorbell sounded all the way upstairs, and Jefferson snapped his head around, hesitating for a long, long moment. In his twenty-eight years in this town, no one had ever rung his bell, and he couldn't help but feel nervous over who might be at his front door now. Swallowing hard, he exited his master bedroom, striding down the hallway to the front-facing window and glancing down at the driveway below. Almost immediately, he recognized Lydia's white car, and heaved a sigh of relief. So she was making it a house call this time.

Thank whatever gods dictate this world, he thought, already descending the staircase. He'd made it down two flights when the doorbell chimed again.

"Hang on," he called as he crossed the main foyer, and even felt his pulse race a little when he reached out to open the door with his right hand—

The instant he saw her face, his stomach dropped, those green eyes immediately piercing him with an accusatory glare.

"Are you out of your damn _mind_?" Lydia nearly shrieked, shoving a hand at his chest. She didn't even wait for an invitation as she backed him into the foyer. "What the hell were you _thinking_?"

The anger and disbelief in her voice sent his mind reeling as she continued to back him towards the staircase. "Wait a sec, what are—"

" _You kidnapped Sheriff Swan?"_

At that, he halted, feeling himself blanch at her words. Oh damn…Deep down, some part of him had hoped that she wouldn't find out, but he should have known better. "How do you—"

"She told me," she interjected. "She came into the clinic today because she knows I'm your doctor, and suffice to say, she was a lot more forthcoming with information about what took place here the other night. And now I know exactly how you ended up falling out that window."

He opened his mouth, closed it, not really sure what to say. Or how to say it. There was no point in denying what she obviously knew to be true, and he wasn't about to insult her intelligence by trying to give her some lame excuse. So for the longest time, he just stood there, a tense silence between them as his eyes remained locked with hers. She was still wearing her white smock from the clinic—obviously forgetting to remove it in her rush to confront him—and he happened to catch the blue cursive writing over the left breast pocket: _Dr. Lydia P. Warner._ Funny: he'd never really focused on what her middle initial was until now. And still, her hair was pulled back from her face, giving him a full-on view of the disappointment in her features, which stung more than he wanted to admit.

"Jefferson," she said at last, her voice quieter now.

Something about that caused the ache in his chest to intensify. "Is she going to arrest me?" He asked, taking a step back. "Is that why you've come?"

Pursing her lips, she said, "I asked her as much, but that doesn't seem to be her intent." At that, he breathed a sigh of relief. "However, she felt obligated to warn me about your behavior and the dangerous situation you put her in, and honestly, it put me in an awkward position when she asked if I knew your current whereabouts."

He clenched his jaw. "And did you tell her?"

With a sigh, she slowly shook her head. "No. I'm doing my best to act in your best interests, but damn it, Jefferson: holding a member of law enforcement hostage?" Crossing her arms over her chest, she said, "Your actions could potentially cost me my job, so you had better come clean with what was going through your head that night."

Yes. He did owe her that much. Considering the lengths she'd obviously gone through to protect him, it was the very least he could do. "I thought she might be the answer."

Her brow furrowed. "To what?

"She didn't tell you?"

"She was pretty lax on details pertaining to a motive."

Of course she would be. Exhaling audibly, he turned away. "Grace," he said, lowering himself to sit on the third step of the staircase. "After you refused to help me, I thought she might be the only other option I have to get her back."

"Why would you think—"

"She's the reason why we remember."

At that, she went quiet, and he looked up to see the confusion in her eyes.

"Think about it," he said. "The tower clock didn't start moving until after she arrived, and that's when you started having dreams, wasn't it? That's when everything around here started to change, and you began to remember your life in Wonderland. And it's because she's brought _magic_ to Storybrooke."

Her lips parted on an intake of breath.

"I was desperate," he went on, lowering his gaze. "It may only be a matter of time before Grace regains her memories, and the thought of her hating me for abandoning her all those years ago…" He slowly shook his head. "I couldn't bear it; I just _couldn't_. So I wanted her to use her magic to provide me with a hat that finally works."

"Jefferson—"

"One that could take us back home," he pressed, not caring that his voice wavered. "Away from here so we can finally be together. But…"

"It didn't work."

He sighed, closing his eyes. "No. No, it didn't. And I don't know what I'm going to do next."

For a moment, she said nothing. Then, "Magic." He lifted his eyes, seeing her rub at her forehead before looking at him. "That's what it always comes back to, isn't it?"

The skepticism in her tone had his brow furrowing. "I know you sensed its presence that night. Magic can only be counteracted by a stronger magic, which accounts for why we managed to break free from Regina's spell."

"I'm not denying that," she countered, "but I think you sometimes forget that magic is how you ended up in this situation in the first place."

He blinked, unsure how to respond to that.

"And honestly," she continued, "what did you expect to happen? That Sheriff Swan would just go along with whatever you told her to do, no questions asked? An outsider who knows _nothing_ about our pasts? Jefferson…as far as we know, we're the only ones in town who remember anything, and we have to be careful about what we divulge to others."

"I had to at least try, Lydia. Grace is all I have, and I will do anything to get her back," he tightened his right hand into a fist. " _Anything_."

Those green eyes held his. "And if you'd been arrested, then what?" She fired back unexpectedly, causing him to stiffen. "Even if your daughter does regain her memories, do you think any judge in their right mind would grant you custody of her given your behavior? Or if you'd been shot that night, or ended up being killed in that fall—what happens then? You would risk leaving her fatherless after everything you've gone through to find her? Did you think ever stop to think about how your actions could impact her?"

He swallowed thickly, a pang of guilt digging into his chest. No; his heart had been so hell-bent on getting Grace back that he really hadn't considered consequences of his actions, and the realization had him squeezing his jaws together.

"I figured as much," she sighed, "and this obsessive idea that you have to have magic in order to get her back…" Giving a bare shake of her head, she bent down slightly, keeping her eyes locked with his. "I don't know if Paige really is who you say she is, but you need to understand that she's an innocent child in all of this. I want to make very clear that my stance hasn't changed: I will do whatever is necessary to protect her, even if that means protecting her from you."

A burning pain swelled beneath his chest, though whether it was due to frustration or shame, he couldn't say for sure. All he could see was the anger in Lydia's eyes, and it was absolutely directed at him. Before he could think of a reply, though, she'd already turned on her heel and walked away, leaving him behind without another word. As she yanked the front door shut behind her, Jefferson let his face fall into his hand.

Fates be cursed! He hissed to himself. He'd thought for sure that Emma Swan's magic would be the key to getting his Grace back, but that had backfired spectacularly in his face. Even with the presence of magic, nothing had gone the way he'd hoped, and now that Lydia knew the truth about what had happened that night…How could so much have so gone wrong in only a matter of days?

Worst of all, how could he go on knowing that every time he closed his eyes, he would be haunted by the disappointment he'd seen so clearly in hers?


End file.
